Romancing the Billionaire (29 page)

Now, you're probably wondering why I've dragged you all over the place and forced you together with Jonathan Lyons once more. It has everything to do with Akrotiri, because that summer . . . I made a huge mistake.

It didn't take much digging to figure out the trouble you were in. Someone had overheard you telling Jonathan that you wanted to start a family, and one of the other girls that bunked with you confessed that you were crying a lot. It reminded me of how your mother and I got together, actually. I guessed that you were pregnant and trying to bring Jonathan home with you.

And I got selfish. I saw Jonathan as the son I never had, and the thought of him losing out on his dreams to go and raise a baby with you . . . it made me feel as if history was repeating itself. I was coming off of another bitter argument with your mother, and we were on the verge of making some really wonderful breakthroughs in Akrotiri, and my daughter wanted to take away my favorite assistant. So I acted selfishly, and when you left your letter for Jonathan, I took it and hid it.

He never got your message, Violet. That's my fault. It was clear he was in love with you, though. As soon as you left, he became a different person: morose, unhappy. It was like the light had gone out, and I knew the light was you. So I did my best to make him forget you so I could have my assistant back. I told him you'd married someone as soon as you returned home. It broke his heart, I think, but it did the job. He threw himself back into work, and I hid my guilt. I knew I had crushed your relationship, but I hoped, foolishly, it would end up being best for both of you. When I heard from your mother that you lost the baby, my guilt was overwhelming. By then, though, I'd chosen my course. You resented me for continuing to spend time with Jonathan, and I felt as if I'd lost every connection to my baby girl, and it was my own fault. I'd chosen archaeology over family for the last time, and I had nothing left but work . . . so I worked. It wasn't something I could apologize for, so I tried to forget it ever happened.

Of course, it came back to bite me when I got too sick to work. By then, I'd chosen my path. There was no one to sit at a lonely old man's bedside and hold his hand and keep him company. I'd pushed everyone out of my life except for work colleagues, and if you can't work, you don't even have those.

I sent you on this long, crazy chase so you might remember me a bit more fondly over time. I've arranged this “scavenger hunt” in the hope that you will reconcile with Jonathan and at least part as friends. It was my fault that the two of you did not end up together ten years ago; the least I can do is bring you together upon my death.

You've probably wondered at the poetry, too. I remember my sweet Violet loved poetry once upon a time. It was a form of expression for someone who had a hard time expressing herself. I hope you enjoyed the pieces I picked. They spoke to me, and I thought the themes of love and loss were appropriate to how I felt, too. Perhaps you got your inability to express yourself from dear old dad, eh?

Please tell Jonathan that I stole the stele deliberately to force his hand. It's being held in a safety-deposit box at the Detroit Credit Union under your name and your date of birth is the passcode. I trashed my journals when I found out I was sick. Even this old bastard can keep a few secrets.

Most of all, I wanted you to know that even though I was a terrible and absent father, I still loved you with all the capacity of my small, selfish heart and I'm so proud of you.

Your father,
Dr. Phineas DeWitt

Tears blurred Violet's eyes.
I still loved you with all the capacity of my small, selfish heart and I'm so proud of you.
How many times had she wanted her father to say that to her as a young girl? And yet, if he'd approached her as an adult, she'd have turned away from him with scorn, her heart hardened by disappointment. She carefully refolded the letter, tears flowing down her cheeks. Then, she held it out to Jonathan so he could read it. He did, utterly silent as he paged through it, eyes scanning the words written in a shaky hand. She swiped at her tears with irritation, but they kept coming.

She was feeling so many things at this moment: sadness for her father, who'd died lonely and cut off, knowing that the choices he'd made in his relationships had condemned him; self-pity that she'd lost her father; helpless frustration at knowing her father's motives behind the choices that had screwed with her life. And a sad, sweet ache for the fact that she'd never gotten to tell her father that she'd always loved him, too, even if he disappointed her.

Most of all, she wept for the realization that she could have become her father.

She'd failed at relationship after relationship, not willing to open herself up to get hurt. Before Jonathan had pushed his way back into her life, she'd been alone, with friends at work but spending most weekends by herself and passing time by devoting herself to work. Just like her father.

Jonathan refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. His gaze went to her. “Are you all right, Violet?”

She trembled, holding back her sobs. “I just . . . I was turning into him, you know? I've been holding on to grudges for so long that I refused to see him when he was sick. I almost pushed you away, too. And there would have been no letter after the fact to let you know that I still loved you, because it would have been too late.” Her entire body quaked with suppressed sobs. “I wish I could have talked to him one more time.”

Jonathan pulled her against him and held her while she cried, his hands soothing down her shoulders. “He understood, Violet. Your father knew you, and he knew you were hurt. I think that's why he sent you on this crazy letter hunt. That was the only way to break down your barriers. For what it's worth, I'm glad things turned out the way they did.”

Her fingers plucked at the sleeve of his jacket as she sniffed. “Because we ended up together?”

“Because we ended up together,” he agreed. “Everything else was worth it. All the heartaches, the misery, the lonely nights. If we could change anything, I still wouldn't, because it's allowed us to be here together, today.”

She clung to him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Violet gave another watery sniff. “Did you open your envelope yet?”

“Not yet.” With his arms still around her, he tore the seal with his fingers and shook out his letter.

A piece of yellowed notebook paper, folded into one of the intricate designs that Violet had learned in high school, fell onto the grass. It was sealed with a tiny Santorini postage stamp and said
TO JONATHAN—URGENT!!!
on the front cover.

Violet gasped at the sight of it. “That . . . that was my letter. About the baby.”

“Still sealed,” Jonathan said, the ache in his voice. His arms tightened around her. “Part of me wants to hate your father for that.”

“And part of you feels sorry for him. I know,” she murmured. She felt the same. “But we're together now.”

He nodded.

“I guess we should go get your stele.”

“Since I can't break it over anyone's head at the moment? Yes, I suppose we should.”

Violet gave a shaky giggle at the mental image. “You wouldn't do that anyhow.”

“Wouldn't I?” He pulled her away from his chest and gave her a serious look. “Violet, you realize you're everything to me, right? Nothing in this world matters to me more than you do. Nothing at all. I'd break every stele from here to the Smithsonian if it would make you happy.”

“That would not make me happy,” Violet said. “But it's sweet of you to offer.”

“Then what would make you happy, Violet?”

She looked up at him, into his handsome, worried face. Worried for her. And she felt such an outpouring of love for this fierce, intense man. “I just want to be in your life. In every part of your life. Forever.” She placed her cheek on his shoulder. “I have to warn you, I'm probably going to be an extremely clingy girlfriend.”

“The thought of you being extremely clingy makes me extremely happy,” Jonathan said. “Cling all you like. As for the rest of my life, it means nothing to me if you're not there at my side.”

Violet sighed with utter contentment. She liked hearing that.

Jonathan kissed her temple, and then murmured, “Speaking of, what are you doing next Thursday? I'd like for you to fly with me to New York.”

“Oh?”

“I have some friends I want you to meet.”

—

That Thursday, Violet dashed out of Jonathan Lyons Middle School with the final bell. She swung her purse over her shoulder and rushed out the door with the students, as giddy and excited as they were to be out of class after a long day.

Parked in front of the school was a familiar form in a casual jacket and T-shirt, leaning against a shiny red Lyons roadster. Jonathan smiled at Violet as she rushed out the door and gave her a kiss as she came to his side. “Ready, love?”

“Ready.”

He opened the car door for her, and she slipped inside the passenger seat. A moment later, they were blazing away from the school, heading toward a private airport where Jonathan's favorite turboprop Socata waited.

They flew into New York City just as the sun was setting, and Violet stifled a few yawns as Jonathan ushered her into a sedan and urged the driver toward an unfamiliar address.

When the driver parked on the street outside of a club, Violet gave Jonathan a curious look. This was the club he'd had “business” at before when he'd made her wait in the limo. Odd that they should come here again. She wasn't appropriately attired, either. She'd worn her normal schoolteacher clothing—a pencil skirt and a high-necked blouse with long sleeves. “I'm not dressed for a night on the town, Jonathan.”

“Don't worry,” he assured her, moving to her side and sliding a possessive arm around her waist. “That's not our final destination.”

Puzzled, Violet kept her thoughts to herself as Jonathan ushered her inside and through the club, then down a back hallway. There was a bodyguard in the hall, standing in front of a door, and Violet almost missed the bizarre hand gesture Jonathan gave him. The man grunted and moved aside, and Jonathan turned to look at her. “Promise me you'll share this with no one?”

“I promise,” she told him, now more curious than tired.

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. Then, lacing his fingers with hers, he took the lead and descended the flight of stairs into the cellar of the club. Violet smelled cigars and heard the soft murmur of voices as the door closed behind them.

“Boys,” Jonathan announced as he stepped down the stairs and into the room. “I've brought someone with me tonight.”

Five sets of eyes stared at her in open surprise as Violet entered the basement room with Jonathan. There was a large card table in the center, and five men sat around it, with one empty chair on the far end, no doubt waiting for Jonathan. Drinks and cards were scattered, and a cloud of cigar smoke hung in the air.

“Hi?” Violet said, looking at Jonathan curiously.

“I've brought Violet to meet my brothers,” Jonathan said, a proud look on his face as he tugged Violet forward.

“Brothers?” she asked, curious. Jonathan didn't have any brothers, did he? She thought he'd had an older brother once, but he'd long since passed away. She gazed at the faces around the table and was surprised to see Cade Archer sitting amongst the men, a knowing grin on his face.

“Oh, shit,” said a man with a goatee. “Here we go again.”

Keep reading for a special excerpt from the first book in the new Billionaires and Bridesmaids series

THE BILLIONAIRE
and the
VIRGIN

Coming soon from Berkley!

M
arjorie Ivarsson adjusted the bow on her behind and craned her neck, trying to look in the mirror at the back of her dress. “How is this?”

“Fucking awful,” said the redhead next to her in a similar dress. “We look more like cupcakes than bridesmaids.”

“Do you guys really hate the dresses?” Brontë asked, wringing her hands as the women lined up and studied their reflections in the mirrors.

“Not at all,” said Audrey, who Marjorie knew was the extremely pregnant, nice one. She elbowed the not-as-nice redhead next to her. “I think they're lovely dresses. What do you think, Marj?”

“I love it,” Marjorie lied. Truth was, all that red and white made her look a bit like a barber pole with a bow, but Brontë had worked long and hard to pick out dresses and had paid for everything, so how on earth could Marjorie possibly complain? She'd seen the price tag for this thing. Apparently they'd been custom made by a fashion designer, and the price of just one dress cost more than Marjorie would make in months. Brontë was spending a lot on her wedding, and Marjorie didn't want to be the one to kick up a fuss.

So she adjusted the bow on her behind again and nodded. “It's beautiful. I feel like a princess.”

“Oh, you're so full of shit,” Gretchen began, only to be elbowed by the pregnant one again.

“I think I need this let out a bit more on the sides,” Audrey said, waving over the dressmaker. “My hips keep spreading.”

A woman ran over with pins in her mouth, kneeling at Audrey's side as Marjorie gazed at the line-up of Brontë's bridesmaids. There was herself, a six-foot-one Nordic blonde. There was Gretchen, a shorter, curvier woman with screamingly red hair that almost clashed with her dress, except for the fact that she was the maid of honor, so her mermaid-cut gown was more white than red. There was Gretchen's sister Audrey, who was a pale, freckled redhead and heavily pregnant. And sitting in a corner, beaming at them as if it were her own wedding, was a frizzy-headed blonde named Maylee who was currently being stitched into her bridesmaid dress. Apparently she was a last-minute addition to the wedding party, and so her dress had to be fitted on the fly.

Gretchen fussed with the swishing tulle gathered tight at the knees by decorative red lace. “My wedding is going to be in black and white, I swear to God, because this shit is ridicu—”

“So what made you decide to have a destination wedding, Bron?” Marjorie asked, trying to be the peacemaker. She was a little disturbed at Gretchen's rather vocal opinions about the dresses, and sought to change the subject.

Brontë beamed at Marj, looking a little like her old self. “This is where I met Logan, remember? We got stuck here when I won that trip from the radio and the hurricane hit.” She grabbed Maylee's hands and helped the other woman to her feet as another tailor fussed over the hems. “Logan bought the island and decided to renovate the hotel. He pushed for them to have it done this week so we could get married here. Isn't that sweet?”

“Sweet,” Marjorie echoed, adjusting the deep vee of her neckline. Truth be told, her brain had stopped processing once Brontë had said “bought the island.” Marj was still weirded out by the fact that Brontë—quirky, philosophy quoting Brontë had dated a billionaire and now they were getting married. In her eyes, she always saw Brontë as a waitress, just like herself. They'd worked together at a 50s sock-hop diner for the last year or two . . . at least until Brontë had moved to New York City to be with Logan. It was something out of a fairy tale—or a movie, depending on which was your drug of choice. Either way, it didn't seem like something that happened to normal people. “You're so lucky, Brontë. I hope I can meet a guy as wonderful as Logan someday.”

“Hope is a waking dream,” Brontë said with a soft smile. “Aristotle.”

Gretchen snorted, only to be thwapped by her sister again.

“Bless your heart, Brontë, for paying for everything so we could all be here with you,” Maylee gushed, striding forward to line up with the other bridesmaids. “Look at us. We're all so lovely, aren't we?” She put a friendly arm around Marjorie's waist and beamed up at her. “Like a bunch of roses getting ready for the parade.”

“I believe they are floats in a parade, Maylee,” Gretchen said drily. “Which, now that you mention it—”

Marjorie giggled, unable to stifle the sound behind her hand.

“So who are we missing?” Audrey asked, counting heads. “I know Jonathan and Cade are also groomsmen, right? That's five groomsmen and I only count four bridesmaids here? What about Jonathan's ladylove? What's her name?”

“Violet,” Brontë added. “And I offered for her to be in the wedding, but she declined since we're not familiar with each other, truly. Logan wanted me to add her to the bridesmaid lineup to make Jonathan happy, but Violet insisted on simply attending.” She strode forward and adjusted the lace band under Marjorie's bust. “Does this look crooked to you? Anyhow, Angie's flying in but her kid was having dental surgery today, so she's not coming in until tomorrow.”

Marjorie smiled at Brontë meekly. She'd feel a lot better when Angie was here. She, Brontë, and Angie had all waited tables together (along with Sharon, but no one liked Sharon) at the diner. Angie was in her forties, motherly, and wonderful to be around. They often went to bingo together.

Gretchen nudged Marjorie. “So do you have a date for the wedding? Bringing yourself a man in the hopes he'll catch the garter?”

“I do have a date,” Marjorie said. “His name's Dewey. I met him playing shuffleboard.”

“Dewey? He sounds ancient.”

“I believe he's in his eighties,” Marjorie said with a grin. “Very sweet man.”

“Ah. I getcha.” Gretchen gave Marjorie an exaggerated wink. “Sugar daddy, right?”

“What? No! Dewey's just nice. He's on vacation because his wife recently died and he needs a distraction. He seemed so lonely that I invited him to be my date at the wedding. Nothing more than that. He's a sweet man.”

“Leave her alone, Gretchen,” Brontë said, butting in. “Marjorie always finds herself a sweet old guy to dote on.” Brontë gave her a speculative look. “I don't think I've ever seen her out with anyone under the age of seventy.”

Brontë knew her well. Marjorie smiled at that. “I guess I'm pretty obvious. I just . . . you know. Have a lot more in common with guys like Dewey than most people.”

It was true. She didn't really
date
older men. She just spent her time playing bingo with friends, and shuffleboard, and going to knitting circles and volunteering at the nursing home when she could. Her parents had died long before Marjorie could remember their faces, and so she'd been raised by Grandma and Grandpa. Marjorie had grown up quilting, canning, watching
The Price Is Right
, and basically surrounded by people four times her age. It was something she never grew out of, either. Even at the age of twenty-four, she felt more comfortable with someone in their eighties than someone in their twenties. People her age never sat and relaxed on a Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and a crossword. They never just sat around and talked. They took selfies and got rip-roaring drunk and partied all night long.

And that just wasn't Marjorie. She was an old soul in a really long, lanky body.

That was another thing that the elderly never made her feel weird about—Marjorie was tall. At six foot one, she was taller than every woman and most men. No one wanted to date someone that tall, and most women looked at her like she was some sort of freak of nature. Not her Grandma and Grandpa. They'd always made her feel beautiful despite her height.

So, yeah. With the exception of Brontë, all of Marjorie's friends were living in retirement homes.

“Well, I think we're good on the fitting for now,” Brontë said as the tailors finished their measurements. “Everyone out of their gowns. Go enjoy the day and I'll see you ladies tonight for the bachelorette party?”

Maylee giggled and Gretchen high-fived everyone. Audrey only patted her rounded belly. “Guess I'm the designated driver.”

They shimmied carefully out of the fitted gowns and changed back into their clothing. Marjorie had brought her beachwear with her just in case, and changed into her polka-dotted one piece swimsuit, then wrapped a sarong around her hips, stuffing her clothing into a bag.

It was a lovely day for a walk on the beach, and she had a few hours before afternoon shuffleboard started up, anyhow.

—

“Look! Look!
Tits or GTFO
! Right?” The woman frolicking in the water near Robert Cannon's float pulled off her top and shook her extremely fake cans in his direction.

He raised his drink to her, inwardly wishing she'd go away and take her friend with her. He touched his bluetooth earpiece to remind her that he was on a conference call, despite floating in a raft on the beach, a mixed drink in hand. “What do you mean, ratings are down?”

“Just that,” said his assistant. “Reports are in and despite the new shows, ratings are down for The Man Channel by two percentage points.”

Rob swore and took another swig of his drink. Near his raft, one of the beach bunnies grabbed another tanned girl. Looking over at him, they began to make out in an attempt to try and get his attention.

Fucking typical.

“What about the new show?” Rob asked. Hell, if he was down two points despite the new show, he'd need a much stiffer drink. This one wasn't doing much to sustain his buzz.

“
Tits or GTFO
? Well, despite heavy marketing, it looks like we're not hitting that target 18-40 demographic as heavily as we'd like. I'm not sure what the deal is.”

Robert swore again. “And advertisers?”

“Already making unhappy noises.”

Great. That was just what he fucking needed. He swigged his drink, emptied the glass, and waved it at one of the beach bunnies. On cue, one of the women took it and headed to the shore to get him a refill, her tits bouncing in her tiny bikini. “I'll make some calls when I get back, all right? Just hold down the fort for this week while I take care of things down here.”

“Any luck with Hawkings?”

“Not yet, but I'm hoping to make some progress,” Rob told him absently, watching the antics of the two women. They kissed again—and then looked over at him to see if he was paying attention. One of them waded back out to his raft, his drink in hand. Rob shook his head. Ridiculous creatures. He'd become jaded on people long ago, and these two weren't changing his mind, that was for damn sure. “I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I want a full write-up of all the overnight ratings and a comparison of ad revenue. Have it to me by the morning.”

“Will do.”

“And find out at what point those ratings dropped. What's causing things to tank? Call me back.”

“Will do.”

He clicked off the phone and tilted his head back against the raft, letting the sun beat down through his Bugatti sunglasses. Fucking hell. With ratings down, he was going to have a hell of a time convincing Logan Hawkings that starting up a new cable channel aimed at white-collar businessmen and executives was going to be worth his while.

Not that Rob couldn't bankroll it himself. The billions in his bank account said differently. But he wanted Hawkings's stamp on it, because Hawkings knew everyone in New York City and had a lot of cachet that Rob didn't. People respected him and his business.

They didn't respect Rob's, no matter how much money it made him.

Most of the time he didn't give a shit. Notoriety had made him as much money as anything else. And if he'd made his fortune on capitalizing on cable channels and radio networks designed for the average Joe, so much the better. So some of his shows weren't exactly aboveboard. So what?
Tits or GTFO
was still popular. As long as there were girls with low self-esteem wanting to get on camera, they'd make money.

And he wouldn't feel bad about it.

It wrecked his social life, but he'd just cry into his piles of money. Every woman that was even halfway interested in him wanted his wallet, or to be on one of his shows. The only girls he seemed to attract anymore were vapid idiots like the two currently making out and cavorting in the water in front of him just to get his attention. Didn't care, really.

Rob took the drink that blonde number one offered him and sipped it. Strong, just the way he liked it. “Thanks, sugar.”

“So,” she said, giving her body a little wiggle to get his attention. “Think I've got what it takes to be on one of your shows?”

“Maybe,” he said absently, taking a swig of his drink. Christ, that was strong. He took another swig, because why not? He needed to get good and drunk. Two fucking ratings points. Jesus.

The other girl swam up next to him. “I heard you did lines off of Tiffany West's stomach in Cannes,” she said with a sultry smile.